


Sound It Out

by dracoqueen22



Series: Number One Crush [7]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sounding, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Threesome - M/M/M, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 11:51:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3380474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sunstreaker's desire is Ratchet's pleasure and Sideswipe's along for the ride.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sound It Out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fuzipenguin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzipenguin/gifts).



This was all Sideswipe's fault.  
  
He'd been researching, hours spent crouched on their console, clicking through site after site, engine a steady rev of intrigue and excitement. Sunstreaker could read the mischief in his brother's spark and knew that either Prowl was going to be furious about an upcoming prank or Ratchet would find himself tackled in the medbay.  
  
Either way, Sunstreaker was well out of the line of fire.  
  
This time.  
  
So when Sideswipe finally left to do whatever it was that would either earn him a cheerful stint in the brig or a semi-public overload with Ratchet, Sunstreaker was at last free to use the console as he wished. He'd overheard Carly mention something about an art exhibit for a painter and now was as good a time as any to see what he could find. The human idea of art was as alien as it was intriguing and Sunstreaker's interest had been piqued.  
  
Of course, when he booted up the console, Sideswipe's last search came up on the screen in glaring technicolor full of writhing organic bodies and cliché dialogue.  
  
Sunstreaker shuddered and quickly exited out of the page. Ratchet was to bear the brunt of Sideswipe's mischief apparently. He thought, for a moment, to warn the medic but if Ratchet hadn't figured out that Sideswipe was a menace yet, then it was his own fault. Hah.  
  
Sideswipe had multiple pages pulled up, apparently. Another took place of the one Sunstreaker closed, this one less offensive but still jolting. It was an encyclopedia of sorts. Sunstreaker snorted to himself, intending to click out of it, until his optics caught an unfamiliar phrase.  
  
True there were many unfamiliar words in this listing but for some reason, this particular phrase stood out to him.  
  
He clicked on it and his ventilations nearly stalled. It was... intriguing. Sunstreaker leaned closer, skimming the words, the description, the bland images that neatly translated to Cybertronian anatomy. Heat bloomed in his array. His glossa flicked over his lips.  
  
He remembered when Ratchet had cornered him, demanding that he voice what he wanted, willing to give it to him if only he asked. He remembered the feel of Ratchet pushing into him, finger by finger, until the whole of his fist entered him. He remembered the fullness of it, the ecstasy.  
  
Could this, possibly, hold the same bliss?  
  
Sunstreaker tapped his fingers on the desk, considering. It was appealing. He wanted to try it. And Ratchet would stop if he said to. Ratchet would understand. He would be careful. He'd do it right.  
  
Interest grew.  
  
He guessed it couldn't hurt to ask.  
  
Decision made, Sunstreaker bookmarked the page and closed the rest of Sideswipe's searches. After all, interfacing hadn't been on mind when he'd finally gotten hold of the console. He still wanted to know about the artist.  
  
There was plenty of time to approach Ratchet later.

0o0o0

The soft knock on the door caught Ratchet's attention more than a ping to his comms would have. He looked up from his datapad, surprised to find Sunstreaker hovering in the doorway. Since when did either twin announce themselves politely?  
  
“Busy?” he asked.  
  
“Always,” Ratchet drawled, but he sat back. “But I have time for you, too. Is something wrong?” The scan was reflexive, revealing that Sunstreaker was in the peak of physical condition, as he should be. Ratchet prided himself on keep both twins in shape despite their attempts to get themselves offlined in every battle.  
  
Sunstreaker shook his helm. “No. I'm fine. Sideswipe's fine. Though,” he paused, lips quirking in a grin. “You probably already knew that.”  
  
“Pah.” Ratchet whuffed a ventilation, feeling the twinge in his backstrut. “Don't talk to me about your brother.”  
  
A small chuckle escaped Sunstreaker before he stepped fully into Ratchet's office and draped himself in a chair. “I had nothing to do with that.”  
  
“Yes. I'm well aware.” Ratchet focused his gaze on his partner, noticing that Sunstreaker was a bit... twitchy. “But you didn't come here to tease me about Sideswipe.”  
  
Sunstreaker's gaze instantly wandered away, focused on the fascinating line of Ratchet's pad-shelf. “You said that if I wanted something, I should just ask you.”  
  
“I did.” Intrigued, Ratchet leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his desk. He laced his fingers together. “I meant it, too.” He sent an internal command to both close and lock his office door. He suspected they would need some privacy.  
  
Sunstreaker twitched as the door closed and his optics wandered to the ceiling. “You can say no.”  
  
“I haven't yet,” Ratchet replied dryly. “Especially since I don't know what you're asking for.”  
  
Sunstreaker's internal temperature spiked, he noticed. The handsome mech's faceplates heated as well. He fidgeted in his seat before producing a datapad. This he placed on the desk and pushed Ratchet's direction, all without looking at him.  
  
Well, it was a start. Maybe next time he could actually ask for it instead of offering a picture. At least Ratchet didn't have to chase him down.  
  
He powered up the datapad, prepared for just about anything. And well, as he skimmed the contents, he should have seen this coming. It was a logical progression.  
  
The fact that it made his internals rev with desire was neither here nor there. Ratchet was careful to keep his sudden arousal hidden. This, at least, he had experience with.  
  
“Are you sure?” he asked, processor already peppering him with images of actually putting such a kink into practice. Especially with Sunstreaker, whose beauty and surrender was nearly a kink in itself.  
  
Sunstreaker looked at him, optics bright and hungry. “Yes.”  
  
A single word, a simple glyph, but it was all the reassurance Ratchet needed. He let a smile flicker over his lips.  
  
“Okay,” Ratchet said, and he tucked the datapad into an arm compartment for later studying. “Then I'm willing. What about Sideswipe?”  
  
“I'm sure he'll want to watch,” Sunstreaker said with a wry tone.  
  
Ratchet chuckled. “I'm sure. Do you want me to teach him ahead of time so he can participate or...?”  
  
“Just you.” Sunstreaker squirmed a little in his chair, as though he'd admitted something embarrassing. “This time, I mean. And Sideswipe will just have to watch.”  
  
Warmth blossomed in Ratchet's spark. He took the request for what it was – Sunstreaker laying his trust in Ratchet's hands.  
  
“All right,” he said. “Whatever you want.”  
  
Sunstreaker's smile, Ratchet reasoned, was worth his weight in high grade.

0o0o0

It was a week before their off-duty shifts coincided. Especially since Ratchet refused to be on call. He waited for First Aid to return to ensure they wouldn't be disturbed short of a full-on Decepticon attack. And then he waited a bit longer for them to have handed the Decepticons a sound beating, which meant they would be licking their wounds and not causing trouble.  
  
The week had been spent threading the needle of anticipation. Ratchet's thigh compartment held a case of supplies, and he found himself occasionally patting his leg, reassuring himself of its presence and wasting a moment daydreaming on putting it to use. He imagined how beautiful Sunstreaker would be, in his submission and his eventual overload. How hungry Sideswipe would be afterward, as he always was when Sunstreaker drove them all to distraction.  
  
It made it difficult to concentrate. Honestly, Ratchet would have thought himself a young mech for how easily he was being distracted. There was a war going on and all he could think about was taking the twins to berth and driving them senseless with lust.  
  
Primus.  
  
And then came the day. Ratchet sent a message to the twins to meet him in his quarters and then he set about with the preparations. He swept his berth clear of the various detritus it had gathered (he'd taken to either recharging with the twins or in a bunk in the medbay) and dragged a chair near for Sideswipe. He debated on whether or not they'd need cuffs and decided to keep them nearby, just in case.  
  
The side table was covered in more accessories including lubricant, spare energon, and coolant. The needed equipment was wrapped in a soft microfiber cloth from where he'd sterilized it earlier. Anticipation thrummed in his circuits like a high grade overcharge but without the hangover.  
  
For the most part, Ratchet was going along with this because it was what Sunstreaker wanted, but a keen sense of expectation had been driving his thoughts for the past week. And now, he was not only indulging Sunstreaker, but himself as well. What that said about him, he didn't know, but he wasn't about to change his mind.  
  
His door pinged.  
  
Ratchet stopped reshuffling the stack of datapads on his desk and answered the door. “You have the code,” he reminded his lovers as they came inside, Sideswipe shimmering with smiles and Sunstreaker as reserved as ever, but the tiniest of grins on his lips.  
  
“Yeah, but we thought you might need the warning.” Sideswipe strode in as though he owned the place, planting his hands on his hip plating. “So, what's the flavor this time? Sunny won't tell me.”  
  
“Because you would have aggravated me for a week if I had,” Sunstreaker said and he snuck a glance at Ratchet, one of commiseration.  
  
Ratchet's lip curled upward. “Would you like it to be a surprise then?”  
  
“He'll know soon enough,” Sunstreaker grumbled and looked around Ratchet's quarters, orbital ridges drawing inward. “When was the last time you cleaned in here?”  
  
“I'm hardly ever in here to worry about cleaning,” Ratchet retorted, rolling his optics. “Or did you miss the three of us barely fitting on your berth most nights?”  
  
Sideswipe draped himself against Ratchet's side, hand patting Ratchet's abdomen. “I remember,” he said brightly with a thrum of his engine. “I remember in detail.”  
  
“Are we going to talk all night or actually do something?” Sunstreaker asked though the way his plating clamped inward belied his aggressive tone.  
  
Ratchet gently slapped Sideswipe's hand away from his interface panel. “Are you fully fueled?”  
  
Sideswipe rolled his optics. “Yes, doctor. Topped up and ready to go.”  
  
Ratchet ignored him. “Sunstreaker?”  
  
The yellow frontliner jerked his helm in a nod. “Yes, Ratchet. I remember the rules.”  
  
Good. At least someone did. Ratchet was more than willing to indulge in their kinks, individual and combined. But he had rules. They had to listen to him. They had to tell him when something hurt (that wasn't supposed to). They were to come fully-fueled. And they were to stop the moment anyone wanted to, whether it was the giver or the receiver. Also, there was to be no teasing or gossiping afterward.  
  
They managed the no gossiping part. It was the teasing that still provoked a tussle or two. But then, they wouldn't be brothers if they didn't tussle.  
  
“Good. Then both of you into the berthroom.” Ratchet shrugged off Sideswipe and clapped his hands together. “Sideswipe, the chair. Sunstreaker, on the berth. And don't either of you touch what's on the tray. It's sterilized.”  
  
“Sterilized? Now I'm intrigued.” Sideswipe grinned.  
  
Sunstreaker playfully swatted him on the helm. “When did you learn such a big word?”  
  
“What? I read!”  
  
Ratchet shook his helm and followed the twins into his berthroom. Sometimes, or often, he asked himself how he'd ended up with the both of them. But then he remembered he couldn't imagine not being with them either.  
  
Sideswipe sat in the chair close to the berth while Sunstreaker perched on the edge of it, staring at Ratchet's array of tools. Ratchet wasn't sure to call his expression except that it wasn't apprehension. Not sure he could call it excitement either.  
  
“Second thoughts?”  
  
Sunstreaker released a burst of ventilation. “I should be asking you that.”  
  
“You two pussyfoot around too much,” Sideswipe complained.  
  
Ratchet rolled his optics and pulled his tray of utensils within easy reach. “Has no sense of atmosphere, that one does.”  
  
“I noticed.” Sunstreaker managed a dry grin and rearranged his limbs on the berth.  
  
He lay back, pillowing his helm on his arms, his thighs splayed in invitation. He might be more self-conscious than Sideswipe but when Sunstreaker committed to something, he gave himself fully.  
  
Ratchet had to cycle a ventilation, remind himself to remain in control. No matter how much of an enticing display Sunstreaker made.  
  
He hovered at the side of the berth, his optics drinking in the sight. Sunstreaker had polished himself to a smooth gleam, his paint shimmering with invitation to touch.  
  
“You certainly know how to make yourself irresistible,” Ratchet murmured.  
  
Sunstreaker smirked. “Not that it's hard.”  
  
“Get the show on the road!” Sideswipe said, playing the part of an annoying audience member.  
  
Ratchet tossed a glare at the cheekily grinning twin. “No comments from the peanut gallery,” he said. “Or I'll toss you out on your aft and lock you out. Comprende?” He didn't have to repeat the threat, Sideswipe knew he was more than capable of doing it. He'd done it before after all.  
  
Sideswipe pretended to zip his lips. “Silence is golden,” he promised.  
  
“I'll believe that when I see it,” Sunstreaker muttered.  
  
“You know he'll expect a reward afterward if he manages it,” Ratchet replied, shifting his attention back to Sunstreaker. He took one black hand in his. “Now for the rules.”  
  
Sunstreaker rolled his optics. “Ratchet--”  
  
“That's how this works, remember?” He arched an orbital ridge.  
  
Sunstreaker squeezed his hand. “Fine.”  
  
Ratchet barely kept from smirking. “All of the standard rules apply,” he said. “And I'm especially going to be listening to verbal cues. Which means...?”  
  
“Use my words,” Sunstreaker recited.  
  
Both of them ignored the muffled snicker from Sideswipe.  
  
“Good.” Ratchet approved and to show it, he leaned down and kissed Sunstreaker, their lips pressing together in a warm, wet tangle.  
  
He could already feel the heat rising from Sunstreaker, anticipation making for a heady precursor. His frame hummed with slowly cycling desire. If there was any apprehension, it had already come and gone.  
  
Ratchet shifted to pull back but Sunstreaker's hand pressed against the back of his helm, holding him in place. Sunstreaker's glossa teased at the seam of his lipplating, demanding invitation and Ratchet was more than happy to oblige. The kiss deepened, their glossae tangling, and Ratchet's engine thrummed.  
  
Sunstreaker nipped his lips and Ratchet moaned into the kiss. He had to remind himself not to climb into the berth and take advantage of the array boldly on display. They had another purpose here!  
  
He withdrew, more insistently this time, and Sunstreaker disengaged, though not without a smirk and a languid swiping of his glossa over his lips.  
  
“You are a menace,” Ratchet declared.  
  
Behind them, Sideswipe muttered something but quieted when Sunstreaker shot him a warning look.  
  
“Just setting the mood,” Sunstreaker said with a not so innocent tone. His optics darted to Ratchet's nearby tray and the instruments upon it. “Ready when you are.”  
  
Ratchet had been ready for a week now. He hadn't done this in centuries, if you didn't count the four million years he spent in stasis, and the last time had been on the scale of fragging amazing.  
  
“Very well.” Ratchet cycled his ventilations and rested his hand on Sunstreaker's nearest leg, plating hot to the touch. “You want to open for me?”  
  
“Aren't you going to warm me up first?” Sunstreaker teased.  
  
Ratchet stroked along an armor edge. “I wouldn't want to end the party too soon.”  
  
Sideswipe's laughter was as muffled as he could make it be. But Sunstreaker grinned and obliged, protective panels sliding away to reveal the wet depths of Sunstreaker's valve and a teasing glimpse of his spike.  
  
Ratchet traced his finger around the peeping head, encouraging it to emerge, which it did in a slow, slick slide. Sunstreaker shivered, field licking out with obvious heat as Ratchet curled his fingers around the silver and gold spike and gave it a firm stroke. He forced himself to ignore the weeping valve, as much as he wanted to put his mouth over it and lick Sunstreaker to completion.  
  
Sunstreaker made the best noises when Ratchet applied his glossa to Sunstreaker's valve. It was the best way to make him vocal, make him shatter and come undone.  
  
Another time. He would have more opportunities.  
  
Ratchet cycled a ventilation and forced himself to focus. He stroked Sunstreaker's spike slowly, savoring the thickness, the fullness. He traced the curling lines around the shaft, and measured the heat of it with his palm. He watched the transfluid bead up from the slit and hover there, as though waiting to be tasted.  
  
“Stalling?” Sunstreaker's vocals were soft and husky. Enticing.  
  
“Savoring,” Ratchet corrected, but Sunstreaker had a point.  
  
His free hand grabbed the lubricant from the nearby tray and Ratchet reluctantly released his hold on Sunstreaker's spike. The lubricant was transferred to his other hand and then he flipped back the fabric over the equipment.  
  
Three cylindrical rods gleamed in the overhead light, each one progressively thicker than the one before it. The sight of them made Ratchet's innards clench, his valve humming with interest. Perhaps he could train his younger lovers in their use later, but for now, he had work to do.  
  
Ratchet selected the smallest of them and held it up for Sunstreaker to see. “This is the first of three,” he explained. “I know the measurements of your spike. At most, you should feel a discomfort.”  
  
He would never not explain himself for Sunstreaker's benefit. Sunstreaker's trust was more precious to him than a stockpile of energon. He would do whatever it took to keep it.  
  
“I think I can handle it,” Sunstreaker said, and his vents cycled heat, his optics brightening from the strength of his arousal.  
  
All very good signs.  
  
“Even so.” Ratchet would be monitoring Sunstreaker with scans as much as he would be listening for verbal responses. Sometimes, Sunstreaker couldn't be trusted to look after himself.  
  
He flicked the cap on the lubricant and doused the end of the rod with it. He splattered a good bit on Sunstreaker's spike as well and squeezed it into the tip. Not that he really needed it considering the amount Sunstreaker was leaking. But it never hurt to have too much.  
  
The chair screeched over the floor as Sideswipe scooted closer, rooted in silence.  
  
Ratchet took Sunstreaker's spike in one hand, fingers delicately holding it a few inches below the head. He could feel the pulse and heat of Sunstreaker's arousal and it was a heady sensation. He worked his intake and brought the rod closer, teasing the tip of it around the tiny circumference of the channel opening.  
  
Sunstreaker's ventilations hiccuped.  
  
Ratchet looked up at him, but there was no reluctance or disquiet in Sunstreaker's face. His optics had brightened, his thighs fell further apart. His field licked across Ratchet's with approval.  
  
Ratchet held Sunstreaker's gaze as periphery sensors tracked the movements of his hand, ensuring he was not misplacing his fingers. He guided the tip of the rod to the mouth of the transfluid channel and slipped the rounded end inside with no resistance.  
  
Ratchet's own ventilations were shallow, matched to Sunstreaker's. He nudged the rod deeper, felt Sunstreaker twitch, his field peppering a heavy throb of pleasure.  
  
Halfway down, Sunstreaker's hips gave the tiniest of bucks. Ratchet gave him a warning look.  
  
“I'll tie you down if you can't be still,” Ratchet warned.  
  
If the burst of heat suddenly expelling from Sunstreaker's vents was any indication, Sunstreaker wasn't averse to the idea.  
  
Sunstreaker's grip on the berth tightened, twisting the foam padding into a bunch that threatened to tear. Luckily, Ratchet had picked that particular fabric for its durability.  
  
“Fine,” Sunstreaker gritted out, his glossa sweeping over his lips. “Just don't stop.”  
  
“Wouldn't dream of it.”  
  
Ratchet pushed the sound further until he encountered the barest of resistances. He heard Sunstreaker's sharp ventilation and felt the berth rattle. But Sunstreaker did not move, exhibiting a control Sideswipe could never hope to duplicate.  
  
“Pain?” Ratchet asked.  
  
Sunstreaker shook his helm, heat puffing from his frame in bursts.  
  
Ratchet released the sound, which remained in place with no prompting on his part, and lightly dragged his fingers down the length of Sunstreaker's spike. A racing engine revved, rattling the entire berth. Sunstreaker's thighs pushed further open, his valve seeping copiously onto the berth. All good signs.  
  
While one hand continued the feather light touches to the whorls of Sunstreaker's spike, Ratchet took hold of the sound again. He pushed it in tiny circles around the circumference of the transfluid channel, a stirring motion.  
  
Sunstreaker made a strangled sound, his helm tossing back against the berth.  
  
Nearby, Sideswipe groaned. “Primus,” and the wet sounds of his hand moving over his spike accompanied it.  
  
Ratchet's own equipment kept pinging him for release. But fortunately, he had greater control than both of his lovers. He could keep himself in check. For now.  
  
“Good?” Ratchet asked.  
  
Sunstreaker abruptly released the berth covering at his sides only to reach up and grab the end of the mattress above his helm. His frame shook with the effort of keeping still.  
  
“Yes,” he hissed, through gritted teeth.  
  
“More?”  
  
“Yes! Please!”  
  
Ratchet didn't bother to conceal his grin, not when Sunstreaker all but writhed on the berth, tense and beautiful. And there was little as sweet as the sound of Sunstreaker begging.  
  
It was easy enough to make Sideswipe do it.  
  
Ratchet withdrew the sound and released his hold on Sunstreaker's spike. He ignored the whimper of loss and swiveled, reaching for the next largest rod. It was given the same lubrication treatment as the first.  
  
Sunstreaker's field reeked of heat and arousal. His thighs trembled. It probably wouldn't take much to throw him over the edge.  
  
Beautiful.  
  
Ratchet carefully slid the tip of the larger sound into Sunstreaker's transfluid channel with slightly more resistance this time. Enough to ensure that Sunstreaker could feel every micron of the rod as it pushed deeper and deeper.  
  
Sunstreaker keened, back bowing, lubricant seeping up and around the sound, dripping down the length of his spike. His valve cycled audibly, flooding the berth beneath him.  
  
His field smacked Ratchet with a heady dose of need. His pedes scraped the berth, engine racing.  
  
Ratchet worked his intake. His own spark throbbed to the pulse of Sunstreaker's field. His spike knocked against his panel, urgently pressing against the locks.  
  
Sideswipe made a noise nearby, a cross between a growl and a moan.  
  
“D-don't stop,” Sunstreaker said, vocalizer spitting static. His helm rolled until his optics managed to find Ratchet, struggling to focus. “Please.”  
  
“I wouldn't,” he said, and nudged the sound deeper, until the very tip teased the tiny cycling panel that spiraled open in the event of an overload.  
  
Sunstreaker jerked, hips dancing in minute shifts, charge juttering out from beneath his plating. He vocalized a wordless sputter of “mm” and “nn.”  
  
Ratchet's fingers stroked Sunstreaker's spike, squeezing at intermittent intervals, jostling the metal rod within it. Sunstreaker whined, the berth rattling, his hands creaking as they gripped the mattress.  
  
“Are you close?” Ratchet asked, if only to make sure Sunstreaker was still with him, still okay.  
  
Heated ex-vents and a drizzle of potent lust was Ratchet's only warning before Sideswipe pressed up against his side. “Frag, yeah, he's close,” Sideswipe panted, helm nuzzling against Ratchet's shoulder as his optics lay locked on his thrashing brother. “Do it again.” His hands worked furiously on his spike.  
  
As attractive a sight Sideswipe self-servicing could be, Ratchet forced himself to focus on the yellow twin. “Sunstreaker?”  
  
“ _Yesssss_ ,” Sunstreaker hissed through gritted denta, his vents blasted open, cycling so much heat into the room it made Ratchet's external temperature spike. “ _Rrrratchet_.”  
  
Primus he loved the way Sunstreaker moaned his name.  
  
Ratchet cycled a ventilation. He stirred the sound, drawing more burbles of lubricant with each twist of the metal. He knew that it had to be prodding that tiny valve. His hand painted lines of pleasure over Sunstreaker's spike and he wished he had a third, wished he could trace fingers around the swollen rim of Sunstreaker's valve and draw symbols in the dribbles of lubricant.  
  
“More,” Sunstreaker gasped, backstrut arching, frame on display, every inch of him screaming his need. “Please, Ratchet, please.”  
  
One of Sideswipe's hands, sticky with lubricant, grabbed Ratchet's arm, squeezing. “He's going to kill me,” Sideswipe whimpered.  
  
“He's going to kill both of us,” Ratchet retorted, and he took the end of the sound firmly and pulled it out halfway, only to pause.  
  
Sunstreaker whined. Ratchet's ventilations stalled. Sideswipe's hand gripped with a warning crackle of Ratchet's armor.  
  
And then he pushed the sound back in, achingly slow, watching the tremble as it took Sunstreaker from head to toe and then he jerked, spilling an incoherent cry of pleasure as overload stripped him raw. His spike pulsed and Ratchet let go of the ord as spurts of transfluid forced it out, clattering to the berth between Sunstreaker's legs.  
  
The berth itself groaned, the mattress ripped, and Sunstreaker thrashed. It was simultaneously the most beautiful and the most erotic thing Ratchet had ever seen. His knees wobbled and he braced himself against the berth, panels popping, his spike banging on the side of the berth as he leaked down his thighs.  
  
And now Sideswipe was pressing against him, hands pawing at Ratchet like an energy-starved Turbofox. “Ratchet, Ratchet, Ratchet,” he chanted and Ratchet struggled to fend him off.  
  
“Damn it, Sides! Let me check on Sunstreaker first!” he snarled and it was hard enough to focus with the arousal running through his lines without Sideswipe's clever fingers finding all the spots that made him moan.  
  
“Fine,” came the garbled answer, Sunstreaker's field radiating satisfaction as he lay there in a heap on the berth, either not noticing or not caring about the puddle of fluids beneath his aft. “Really. M'fine.”  
  
“He's _fine_ ,” Sideswipe insisted. “But I'm not if you don’t frag me now!”  
  
Ratchet gave Sunstreaker a firm look but their gold lover simply waved a hand. “M'good. Pr'mise.”  
  
The mumbled reply was good enough for Ratchet. He'd see about getting Sunstreaker cleaned up here in a moment. First, there was someone else desperately in need of attention.  
  
Namely, the sparkling currently tugging on his arm with lubricant-sticky hands.  
  
Ratchet whirled on Sideswipe as he was smacked with a dizzying frenzy of lust. His own spike throbbed for relief and Sideswipe didn't appear much less affected.  
  
“Over the berth,” Ratchet growled, his hands emphasizing the order as he wrangled Sideswipe toward his brother and the red twin went willingly.  
  
Sideswipe all but threw himself at the berth, panels wide open and valve dripping to the floor. He moaned as Ratchet took hold of his hips and nudged his spike against Sideswipe's valve, teasing the engorged tip around the heated rim.  
  
Sunstreaker watched them, a graceless sprawl on the brawl, but his optics brightening with approval. One hand flopped in the general direction of his valve, lazily stroking through the gathered lubricant, prompting a pant of need from his twin.  
  
“Tease,” Sideswipe gasped. It wasn't clear which of them he was accusing.  
  
Sunstreaker smirked.  
  
Ratchet chose that moment to thrust forward and hilt himself in Sideswipe's valve, bowing forward as he was instantly encased in clenching, dripping heat. He panted, dragging in a ventilation, as Sideswipe's valve rippled around him. His grip on Sideswipe's hips tightened.  
  
Sideswipe all but yelped, but his hips canted backward, urging without words.  
  
“Alright?” Ratchet asked.  
  
“Fine!” Sideswipe growled. “Hard, Ratch! Come on!”  
  
All he'd needed was permission.  
  
Ratchet pulled out and slammed back into Sideswipe, setting up a brutal pace that rattled the berth and crushed Sideswipe between it and the medic. Sideswipe all but howled, his valve grasping Ratchet's spike, lubricant spilling out around Ratchet's erratic thrusts.  
  
Sideswipe squirmed, helpless noises escaping his vocalizer as he pawed at the berth. His spike ground against the side of the berth, charge crackling between them strong enough to be registered on Ratchet's scanners.  
  
Ratchet's hips collided against Sideswipe's again and again, a loud crash of metal on metal, sure to leave scrapes behind. Neither of them cared. Not with the need burning so intensely through their lines. Sunstreaker had put on quite the show.  
  
And it was no surprise when overload struck mere seconds later, when it hit Ratchet like a bolt of lightning. His bellow echoed in his quarters as he spilled himself in Sideswipe's valve, spurting charged transfluid in a hot wash over lit sensors.  
  
Ratchet tilted forward, knees weak, as Sideswipe squirmed beneath him, still charged and on the cusp of overload, but not quite there.  
  
A whine eked through Sideswipe's engine and Ratchet worked a hand beneath Sideswipe, getting a firm grip of his spike. A few strokes and he had transfluid staining his hand as Sideswipe thrashed and overloaded, spilling a helpless assortment of non-words.  
  
Ratchet's vents struggled to pull in cooler air. His visual feed fritzed and it took greater effort than it should have to withdraw from Sideswipe and tilt his frame to the side so that he wouldn't crush Sideswipe.  
  
Frontliner the twins might be, but they were no match for the sheer tonnage of an ambulance.  
  
Ratchet braced himself against the berth, waiting for all of his systems to settle and reboot. A hand stroked his helm and he belatedly recognized it to be Sunstreaker's.  
  
“Are you all right?” Sunstreaker asked, a hint of wickedness in his tone.  
  
Ratchet didn't have the energy to dredge up a glare. “Course I am.”  
  
“I need to recharge,” Sideswipe groaned, trying to pull himself up and failing. Instead, he staggered backward and collapsed into the chair he'd occupied earlier. His limbs lazily draped across it.  
  
“I need to bathe,” Sunstreaker retorted, but he made no move to get up. One hand still lazily toyed with his valve, but the act seemed less to arouse and more because he could.  
  
Ratchet turned his helm so that he could see Sunstreaker's face. “Is this something to add to the queue of repeats?” he asked.  
  
The soft smile he was presented with made Ratchet's spark flutter. “Yeah,” Sunstreaker said. “Thank you.”  
  
Sideswipe pushed himself further onto the berth, laying a messy kiss on the nearest part of Sunstreaker he could reach, which amusingly was his knee. “Does that mean I get a turn next?” He laid his helm on Sunstreaker's leg, turned so that he could look up the length of Sunstreaker's frame.  
  
“Greedy,” Sunstreaker accused.  
  
“You know it.” Sideswipe grinned.  
  
Ratchet shook his helm. Hopeless, the both of them.  
  
He wouldn't have it any other way.  
  


***


End file.
